


dying wish

by dethgarbage



Category: Metalocalypse (Cartoon)
Genre: Drunk Sex, Episode: s03e03 Dethhealth, Finger Sucking, M/M, Porn With Plot, background skwistok
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-17 05:20:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29836605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dethgarbage/pseuds/dethgarbage
Summary: when pickles thinks he's dying, he and nathan get drunk together and take things into a new territory. the only problem? turns out he's going to live.
Relationships: Nathan Explosion/Pickles the Drummer
Comments: 3
Kudos: 19





	1. pity tequila

**Author's Note:**

> a multi-chapter nickles smut fic in 2021? we deserve it

Nathan Explosion always hoped that maybe after being a krillionaire rockstar for long enough, he eventually would become immune to hangovers. Apparently this isn’t the case, because when his eyes peel open and the word blinks into color, his head is absolutely pounding. Everything is still spinning, and even though Pickles keeps his room constantly dim to help ease his hangovers, Nathan’s vision still burns and blurs, and fuck! What happened last night...? 

As reality settles back in, Nathan remembers the shocking news they’d received the day before, and the pieces of this puzzle start to slowly come back to him.  _ “Pickles, you’re dying,” _ the doctor had said, and ever since he’d gotten the news, Pickles had been very wasted and very inconsolable. Sometimes when their drummer gets into one of his ruts, all he wants is to be by himself, so Nathan hadn’t really seen much of him after the news hit. 

Between throwing himself into his stockpile of drugs and stumbling around at carnivals, Pickles had been spending his final days doing what he loved. And honestly, Nathan was off having his own existential crisis over the untimely demise of his best friend. For one thing, it had him thinking about his own morality - even convinced him to finally make an appointment with a creepy ass dentist.  But it also had him thinking about what his life will be like without Pickles around - and he doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like it at all, actually, and just imagining himself without the little guy by his side makes him a bit misty eyed. Fifteen years they’ve been basically inseparable, and now what? Nathan’s just supposed to spend the rest of his life alone, without his... Pickles ? How would even be able to manage that? 

He tries to think of what he got up to that warrants this much spinning - he can faintly remember downing some pity tequila before knocking on Pickles’ door, his drummer's red-rimmed green eyes staring at him tearfully on the other side.  _ “So, like. You’re dying. Which is brutal, but, uh. I figured...y’know, we need like. One last night. Of drinking ‘till we black out, before the uh...maggots infest your rotting brain, or whatever.” _

Ohhhh. So that’s what must’ve happened. He groans low in his chest, big palm sliding over his face, and when he finally reaches a point where he feels like he needs to get up to vomit up some blood and despair, he tries to hulk himself out of bed. And then, he moves, and sends whoever was apparently sleeping on top of his chest sprawling off the bed and onto the floor. 

Had he and Pickles been fucking groupies last night? He definitely can’t remember having any girls over, and usually the Klokateers get any guests out of there before he wakes up, especially when he’s had too much to drink and could easily just sleep for the next infinity. So why would they leave this one here? When he inhales in frustration with his shitty memory, the smell in the air registers to him - sex and sweat and cigarette smoke, mixing with the usual garbage can cologne stench of Pickles’ room. 

He blinks away the blurriness, peering over the edge of the bed to see who he accidentally launched off of his chest, and that’s what he sees him. Pickles. Still sleeping with his cheek against the floor, bare-ass naked, dreds a wild mess, hips and neck covered in dark bruises. Nathan’s face instantly flushes, especially as he gawks at the giant, angry handprint on his left asscheek. 

A memory from last night springs it’s way to the forefront, sending a shocked, tingly warmth from the pits of Nathan’s stomach up to the apples of his cheeks. _“_ _ Nate’n, ‘m dying,” Pickles slurred, drunken tears in his eyes to match the wetness streaming down Nathan’s own face. He threw a leg on either side of the frontman, straddling where he sits at the helm of the bed, whispering, “I can’t...be afraid ‘nymore.”  _

Okay. This is fine. Him and Pickles have been to orgies together before, and Pickles has fallen asleep on top of him before. These two events have never happened at the same time, but. They probably had an orgy, and Pickles tuckered himself out and forgot where he was, yeah, and fell asleep on top of him. They used to do that, back when the band first started out - cuddle for body heat, or whatever. Pickles would get so cold, small frame shuddering on the couch, and Nathan couldn’t stand to see him looking so frozen and tiny and pathetic. His hulking body always has warmth to share, and Pickles seemed so thrilled when he’d offered, so...it was just a bro helping another bro out. Nothing weird. Nothing gay, because Nathan’s not—

_“Oohhh Nate’n, fuck me dood, pleaseeee,” Pickles moans, fistful of dreds locked up in the frontman’s left hand, a thin hip gripped in his right as Nathan growls and makes good on the request, grunting his friend’s name as he eases his dick into him, and Pickles looks back at him over his freckled shoulder as he gasps in pleasure. His pale body shudders underneath Nathan's, and the frontman gives him a second to adjust before he's begging and whining for more, for Nathan to go fast and hard, and he lets out this animalistic type of growl before losing himself completely, fucking his friend roughly before smacking a hand down hard on his ass, and Pickles laughs wildly as he squeaks out a desperate 'do thet again, holy fuck!'—_

“WOAH,” Nathan thunders, eyes huge as he scrambles all the way to the other side of Pickles' bed, because what the actual FUCK. That looked like he was fucking Pickles and he definitely did NOT let himself fuck Pickles. He’s like. Maybe thought about it once or twice, but who hasn’t because it’s fucking _Pickles_ , Pickles from Snakes ‘n Barrels who was a walking sex icon, Pickles the Drummer who gives everyone a hardon smashing around up there, and—no. No. No no no no no. 

“Pickles,” he whispers, sounding terrified, because he can’t suffer like this alone. Maybe his drummer remembers the night differently, or could offer up some sort of explanation so this makes some type of sense, and he needs to wake up right now.

“Nyyehhh,” Pickles groans, voice muffled by the floor. “Whhhuuhhh happehhhh...” 

“ _Pickles_ ,” Nathan tries again, looking down at himself and realizing he is indeed naked as well, and now he’s really starting to panic. His friend must hear the sheer horror in his voice, because he turns his head, eyes bloodshot and bleary as he raises a studded eyebrow, still slurring through his hangover, “Wheh’s wrahng?” 

“Uhhhhh, I-I, I don’t...” Nathan has his hands in his hair, trying not to panic. “Did we...? Uhhh. Did we.....” 

Pickles just stares at him, blinking in different intervals. Maybe they didn’t do anything. Maybe it was just a dream maybe—

_ “I’ve wanted you fer so fuhkin’ lahng. Since Flarida, dood. Since ferever,” Pickles’s drunk voice whispered against his ear, small hands framing his face as their noses brush, labored breaths mingling. “Havin’ you for one night, dat’s my...my gahddamn dyin’ wish.”  _

_ “Let me fuck you, Pickles,” Nathan whispered back against his mouth, his vision exploding colors and highlighting his drummer’s face in pinks and reds. His skin felt like it was on fire, and Pickles felt so good in his arms, the two of them vibrating together on the same frequency, just like they always have. His big hands clutched at Pickles’ clothed hips, grinding them against his own as his unfiltered brain lets him murmur, “I’ve wanted you for a long fucking time, too.” _

Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck, he’s gotta get out of here. Pickles sees the panic wash over Nathan as the frontman tries to barrel out of bed as fast as he can, which isn’t very fast because his head is still absolutely pounding, and his drummer finally lifts himself off the floor. He winces as he tries to sit cross-legged, sore ass unable to rest comfortably against the hard concrete, and Nathan gulps as he looks desperately for his clothes. 

“Nate,” Pickles decides on standing up, taking a wobbly step towards where Nathan is trying to sort through all the shit on the ground to find his shirt, because he can’t walk past the guys coming naked out of Pickles’ room, and what the fuck would they say if they found out about this? Pickles might be dying, but Nathan’s gotta stay here, he’s gotta deal with this and wrap his mind around it, and— 

“Dood. Stahp,” Pickles demands, and Nathan stills, eye ticking nervously. His drummer grabs him by the shoulders, turns him around, and Nathan refuses eye contact, looking anywhere but the redhead’s face as the other man says, “Whet are you freakin’ out about.” 

“W-We—!” Nathan growls, face flushing as he wrings his hands, “You-know-whatted! Last night! Like, a lot, I’m pretty sure! My god, look at yourself!” 

Pickles blinks, head turning as he looks at himself in the little cracked mirror on his left wall, and is faced with the dark hickies and bruises all over his pale body, the disarray of his dreds and the handprint on his ass. He looks at Nathan, then back to himself, and before the frontman can protest Pickles grabs his big hand and settles it on top of the handprint, testing to see it they’re the same size. As if he doesn’t already fucking know it is. 

“Oh,” Pickles gapes, and now he’s the one to flush red head to toe, and Nathan really tries not to think about how sexy it is to see all that pale skin blush so violently. “Uuuhhh. Okey. Okey. Nate’n, this is fine.” 

“How...how is it fine,” Nathan deadpans, smacking a palm against his own forehead. “I fucked the shit out of you, Pickles! How is that fine?!” 

“Because, dood! I’m dyin’, remember? It’s naht like we gahtta pretend like it didn’t happen fer lahng, ‘cause I’ll be...dead, yknow?” Pickles shrugs a freckled shoulder miserably, reaching over to his nightstand and taking a swig out of a bottle of something. “It’s kinda hard to care about cansequences when you know yer dyin’ anyweys.” 

_ But I’m not dying, _ Nathan wants to protest.  _I’m not dying and I fucked you and you’re my best friend and I can’t even remember it, and I’m always going to have to wonder if it could’ve been more, if you really meant that you’ve wanted me this whole time._ Before he can say any of this, he hears Pickles mutter, “And I mean, maybe it’s a good thing.” 

“ _What_.” 

“Yeeah! Like. Now we don’t gahtta wonder whet it’d be like anymore,” Pickles says, scratching his goatee self-consciously. “A little bit is...comin’ back to me. Seems like we had a good time.” 

Nathan wrings his hands in front of him, suddenly jealous that his own brain has stopped providing the memories. He doesn’t want to ask, for so many reasons, but he hears himself blurt, “What...uh. What do you remember?” 

Pickles suddenly looks embarrassed too, as he plucks at his own wristbands, “I dunno. We dropped thet molly ‘n started cryin’ ‘n shit about me dyin’, and then I jest kinda went for it and we started makin’ out...” 

If he really pushes his brain into overtime, Nathan can vaguely remember the two of them locked into a steamy make out session, a studded tongue rolling against his own, small jean-clad hips gyrating with a rockstar-level finesse in his lap. His brain stalls out, then, and he comes up blank for what came next. 

“I think I sucked yer dick?” Pickles blushes, tugging at one of his dreds. “It gets pretty hazypast makin’ out, but...yeah, I’m pretty sure we fucked. A laht. I can remember, ah...” his blush worsens as he mutters, “Ridin’ you.” 

God, that was probably so hot. Nathan scrubs his hands over his face, grumbling, barely able to even get the words out, “I...uhhhh, remember...fucking you. From behind. I can’t remember much besides, uh. That.” 

“Oh. Ahh...huh,” Pickles swallows, gnawing on his pinkie nail. “Hey, now you’ll alweys have somethin’ to naht remember me by. Heh.” 

“Stop. It's not...you dying isn't funny, Pickles,” Nathan mutters, because past all of this, he still is really sensitive about the idea of his best friend being gone forever. They need to make this right before Pickles’ time is up, they need to—

“I mean, it’s true. You heard th’ dacter. I'm...this is it, Nate,” Pickles shrugs helplessly, emotion starting to cloud his eyes. And then he's looking at Nathan, something indescribable flashing behind his expression, and he's sloppy and naked and still probably high from all the drugs he's been funneling into his system since he heard the news, and even still, Nathan's never seen anyone look more stunning. But he's right - this is _it_. He can't afford not to ask the questions he really wants to, because if he doesn't now, he's never going to get any answers. 

"You said...that you've wanted this since Florida," Nathan hears himself mutter, even though he definitely wasn't planning on bringing that up but he _needs to know_ before his friend is gone forever. He lets his hair curtain his face as he ducks his head, looking down at his own black-polished feet as he asks, "Is that true?" 

Pickles gnaws on his bottom lip for a second, looking small and scared before he inhales deeply and squares his shoulders. He splays his fingers out in an 'it is what it is' gesture, sighing, "Yeah, I've wanted you since Flarida. I...I want it _all_. I want all of you." 

"Pickles..." Nathan swallows, suddenly unable to breathe, and Pickles' small chest heaves as he keeps staring at him. His drummer is clearly so nervous - _terrified_ \- but he powers through it as he squeezes his teary eyes shut, " Nate. Y'gahtta know, before I'm gahn - I'm--"

Before he can say whatever he'd been just about to confess, there's a quiet, calculated knock on the door. Both of them jump as Charles' voice rings through, "Pickles? Do you, ah. Remember my call yesterday? I've been trying to get ahold of you, there's some...very urgent news that you need to hear." 

Pickles wipes his eyes on the back of his forearm, sniffling as he huffs out, "Okey, chief. Gimme a second." 

They can both tell Charles is going to keep waiting on the other side of the door until Pickles comes out. Said drummer sighs, scrubbing his hands over his face as he yanks one of his black tanks off the ground and throws it on over his head, sliding Nathan's discarded shirt across the floor with his foot. The two of them get dressed in silence, and Nathan _knows_ he needs to say something, but what is he supposed to say? He's always thought that Pickles is hot, and that he feels like home in a way no one ever has before...but suddenly everything he thought he knew is suddenly flipped upside down. Last night he wasn't gay, Pickles was just his best friend, and they had never even kissed before, let alone embarked on a sex marathon. What the fuck is he supposed to _do_? What does Pickles even want him to say? 

"I'll get Charlie away, and you can sneak in out five. Alright?" Pickles mutters, not looking at him as he cinches his fly. Nathan nods dumbly, and he watches his drummer try and fix the dreds on top of his head in the mirror, not bothering to even try to cover up the brutal hickies on his neck. He glances back at Nathan, grabbing a bottle of vodka and a funnel before slipping out into the hall. 

"Can y'hold this up fer me, Charlie?" Pickles asks on the other side of the door. 

"Pickles, we really need to--"

"Jest hold it, dood. You have no _idea_ how much I needit." 

Charles sighs, and Nathan listens to the sound of his friend chug an entire bottle of vodka in about 30 seconds. By the time it's safe for Nathan to sneak out of the room and join the rest of his friends on the couch, Pickles is standing up, swaying and drunk where their manager stands next to him. 

"Alright, guys, uh. We just got some tests back from the lab, and ah. Pickles, you're not dying." 

The first thought that hits Nathan is, _thank fucking god_. Pickles isn't dying - everything that he'd thought was ending could continue; their friendship isn't over, Nathan doesn't have to live his life without his best friend by his side. But then he looks at Pickles, and pictures the compromising position he'd had his drummer in last night that's burned to the back of his eyelids, and he thinks - _he's not dying, but our friendship might be over anyways if we can't figure out how to deal with_ this. 


	2. insanity

Nathan is pretty sure that he’s losing every aspect of his own sanity, because Pickles is driving him fucking insane. The two of them haven’t talked to each other in five days, seven hours, and thirty-six minutes - which already makes Nathan this moody cocktail of depressed frustration. But while Pickles hasn’t talked to him, he’s sure spent a lot of time _looking_ at him. 

Whether it be onstage, in a meeting, or in the studio, Nathan feels like he’s going to melt into a puddle at his feet when he feels green eyes dragging over his body, lingering over his arms and his chest and his _crotch_ , and he can’t help but wonder if his friend has looked at him like this the entire time and he just never noticed it. Sometimes the redhead catches Nathan catching him, and when their eyes meet - it’s just a whole visage of desire, of fucking _lust_ , and he honestly isn’t sure if he’s going to make it out of this alive.

Every night since it happened, Nathan stares at the ceiling and just wonders. He wondered a bit before, what it would be like to kiss Pickles. To curl a hand around the nape of his neck, crash their lips together, and feel that studded tongue sliding against his own. Back then, whenever his mind would go too far and get too sexual he’d have to cut himself off. It was always too gay to let himself think about - but now it’s happened, and Nathan can’t stop thinking about everything he’d been denying his brain all these years. 

What was it like, having Pickles gasping underneath him, grinning as he grinds on top of him? Knowing he had it, but can’t remember... it’s driving him crazy. It’s making him want it again, which terrifies him as much as it dizzily turns on him on. He’s honestly probably just as bad with the unsubtle eye-fucking as Pickles is, because he just can’t stop looking at him. Watching the redhead smash on his drums at practice, or curl his full lips around the joint dangling between his fingers, or tilt his head as he tries his dreds back into a ponytail...it’s doing things to Nathan that he can barely manage to control. 

He spends way more time than he’d like to admit locked in his room, chewing on his bottom lip violently as he jacks off, picturing what little memory he does have of that night, but it’s never fucking enough. He goes online, and he pours over those raunchy groupie sites because he’ll take whatever he can fucking get at this point, reading about the girls who say Pickles is wild in bed, willing to try anything and a perfect kisser and _loud_ \- everyone swears he’s so fucking loud. That if you get him going he won’t stop talking and whimpering and moaning, with a mouth so dirty that some girls cum just from his whispers alone, and Nathan feels so wound up and turned on every second of the day that he can barely see straight. 

Finally, though, something snaps. 

At the breakfast table, Murderface turns up the volume on the TV passive-aggressively, mouth full of cereal and a killer frown on his face as he tries to hear over the arguing of the Scandinavians next to him. 

“I bets I can finish my breakfast first, Skwisgaar!” 

“Psshh, you ams just tryingks to appeals to my compektitives natures, little Tokis. I amnst fallingk for its.” 

“You ams just norvous dat I ams fasters, secretlies. Maybes if I beats you here, I starts playins faster too...” 

“Fucks you! If you coulds play any fastor or any less _sloppies_ , I thinks I’d have known by nows,” Skwisgaar snaps, and Nathan watches as his two guitarists bury their faces into their plates, doing their...weirdly sexually-charged schtick like everything’s normal. How don’t any of them feel this colossal shift? How is Nathan the only one who feels like he’s seeing the world in an entirely different light? 

“Hey, Picklesch. You scheen thisch epischode of Caschtaschtrophe? Scho fucking brutal, thisch one guy getsch his eyeball sliched straight out with a two-dollar bill.” 

Just at the mere mention of Pickles’ name, Nathan’s shoulders square as he sits up straighter. He dares a glance over, subtly as possible, and he gets an eyeful of sleepy green eyes and messy dreds, his drummer’s chin in his palm as he looks tiredly up at the TV. He’s so frustratingly attractive, that it makes Nathan’s big hands ball into fists underneath the table. 

“Oh yeah, dood. This one’s brutal. You see the part where the quarters start like—“ 

“Schlamming through hisch chescht like bulletsch? Scho fucking brutal.” 

“My PR lady told me it’s all a setup, y’know. They make the questions real hard on purpose so they gaht an excuse to ahff the guy.” 

“Ooh, yeah, your queschtion wasch really hard. I’m schtill trying to figure out how it makesch schensche!” 

“I was so drunk I don’t even remember whet it was,” Pickles laughs, and Nathan feels his face flush, because that seems to be a pattern with his drummer, doesn’t it? He wished he knew how Pickles is able to act so nonchalant around the other guys, how he’s perfectly fine with the fact that they haven’t talked since they woke up together. It’s the longest they’ve ignored each other in fifteen years, and it’s making Nathan feel itchy and uncomfortable. 

“You guys wants to hits de saunas? I gots to relax before having to re-records Toki’s tracks for de album,” Skwisgaar says airily, smiling and haughty because he’s finished his food and Toki’s still struggling to wharf his down.

Unable to tell the blonde to fuck himself because his mouth is full of pancakes, Toki holds up a middle finger flatly. He swallows, wiping off his mouth with the back of a hand, “I coulds go for the saunas, if you amnst gonna be a dicks while we in dere.”

"Uh," Nathan hears himself say, pulse jumping as everyone's eyes snap over to him. "Do we, uh. Do we really need to go in there." 

He doesn't think he'll be able to handle being all...bare and steamy and sweaty in such a close vicinity to Pickles, but the Scandinavians seem deadset on going, and Pickles says nothing in protest as he stares holes into TV, so Nathan can do nothing but concede. 

The frontman glances at where everyone sits around him in the sauna, his palms sweaty and hulking body vibrating uneasily as he tries to act natural. He’s been trying to look at his drummer as little as possible, because Pickles’ basically-naked body is right across from his own, and getting a glimpse of sweet freckled skin and a fiery red happy trail and those hickies he sucked onto his neck and collarbones are much, much too much - and risking eye contact is even more dangerous. As long as he doesn't think about it, doesn't let on that his drummer is driving him up the wall, he--

“Pickle, looks like you hads a fun night recentallies, ja?” Skwisgaar raises an eyebrow amusedly, causing both Pickles and Nathan to jump in surprise. The redhead blinks, raising his studded eyebrows as he stammers, “Whuh-? Whaddo y’mean by thet?”

“I think Skwisgaar ams talkins about de real brutal neck kissins,” Toki says, gesturing to the bruised, freckled skin. Pickles’ eyes widen, face reddening as his shoulders hunch up a bit, and Nathan instantly chokes on his own spit. Usually around Mordhaus, hickies aren’t a big deal, and nobody bothers covering them up because they aren’t in high school, but...acknowledging their existence naturally sends Pickles’ and Nathan’s minds back to how exactly they got there. 

_If he really pushes his brain, he can faintly remember the sound of Pickles’ gasping moans as Nathan sucked the marks into his neck, roughly palming his drummer through his jeans, rubbing in slow, arduous circles. The redhead whined out an “oh gahd, Nate’n, please,” entire body shuddering as the frontman bared his teeth against his neck, scraping them along the freckled skin before biting down—_

“I think it’s discguschting,” Murderface says, snapping Nathan out of his own head and giving him enough brain function to quickly cross his legs before anyone can see the tenting in his towel. “I’d be pissched if I had to walk around with that schit on my neck.” 

“Good thing nobodies wants to gives dem to yous,” Skwisgaar smirks, laughing with Toki as the bassist sputters. The blonde leans forward on his palms, raising a light eyebrow at Pickles, “So, you goingk to gives to us the details?” 

Pickles twitches nervously, face blazing as he opens his mouth, but Toki beats him to it, “Aw, Pickle! Looks at how red you gettins! You must haves de real big crush on this goil, ja?” 

Oh god, Nathan’s literally about to die as he stares holes into his own hands, hiding behind his hair and hoping the guys can’t see how much he’s blushing too. Pickles laughs anxiously, tugging at his dreds as he forces a tense smile, “H-Heh, yanno, I ain’t one t’really kiss ‘n tell...” 

“Wasch she hot? Only the really hot, crazchy chicksch suck neck like that.” 

Nathan forgets himself, and accidentally makes eye contact with Pickles, green meeting green and sparking instantly into a burning inferno. There it is again - the lust, the desire, and Pickles licks his bottom lip slowly as the two of them hold eye contact, and Nathan’s breath hitches as his drummer’s eyes flicker down to the frontman’s lap. Can he sees that Nathan is turned on? Would he...like that, if he was? 

“Yeeah. She was pretty fuckin’ haht,” Pickles breathes, and Nathan blushes wildly as he breaks the eye contact, looking away and wishing he could bury his head into a pillow and death growl out all the butterflies swarming and thrashing in his chest. 

Toki pouts, “Why does the hot kinky ones always have to be crazies?” 

“It ams truly one of life’s greatest mysteries, Tokis.” 

It doesn’t take long for Skwisgaar to toss his hair behind his shoulder as he stands up and walks out, Toki following tight at his heels as the two fall into their usual bickering, and Nathan prays Murderface will stay so him and Pickles aren’t alone together. But then the bassist’s phone rings, his ‘Takin’ It Easy’ ringtone blaring as he huffs, “Fucking Knubbler, he better be working schit out for my goddamn Chrischtmasch spechial...” And then he gets up, taking the call. 

Oh god. Nathan chips the nail polish on his fingers as he hunches in on himself, not sure if it would be more awkward to instantly get up and run, or stay and sit with Pickles in a sexually tense silence. Luckily (or unfortunately), his drummer breaks the silence pretty quickly. 

“Hey, Nate’n,” he says, hands folded in his lap nervously, foot bouncing against the wet tile floor. 

“Hey,” Nathan rumbles back, still picking at his nail polish. “So. You didn’t die.” 

“Nope, heh, I did naht. Ain’t thet funny.” 

“I’m...um. I’m glad,” Nathan mutters, and they make eye contact again, fleetingly. “Even if now we have to deal with the dumb consequences of...mmpphhhh-ing...each other.” 

“Ahhm. About thet,” Pickles says, and Nathan gulps audibly, hiding behind his hair again. “I been thinkin’.” 

“Y-Yeah?” 

“We already...fucked, so we can’t take it back. But we could...y’know. Make it worth all the trouble,” Pickles says, drumming his fingers against each other nervously. “I mean, whet’s the point of goin’ through alla this, if we can’t even remember it?”

Usually, when faced with an idea, it always takes Nathan’s brain a few extra minutes to process it. But the gears keep turning and no explanation of what Pickles is talking about hits him, so he grunts, “Uhh. What.” 

“I’m sayin...” Pickles gesticulates something that Nathan doesn’t understand, Irish skin betraying him as his face reddens wildly. “We...do it again?” 

Nathan’s breath whooshes right out of him, hulking frame vibrating nervously as he forces his eyes up to his drummer’s. Judging by the look on Pickles’ face, the little guy is being serious. Serious that they fuck without the excuse of being drunk, that they let themselves say screw it and strip down the carefully crafted dynamic they’ve built to make their unspoken sexual tension livable.

Nathan wants to do it again. He knows instantly that he wants to, that he _needs_ to - but he can’t help but start to worry. How would this affect their band, their friendship...how would it affect _Nathan_? Pickles admitted to wanting him since Florida, to wanting ‘all of him’ - what did that mean, when he said that? Right now, he’s trying to make this seem like it’s casual, like it’d be no big deal - but Nathan’s pretty sure if they actively do this then it’s going to be, like. Really significant. Has Pickles just wanted to fuck him since day one, or does he want...to be more? Would Nathan want to be more with him? The idea sends equal amounts of fear and gooey warmth flooding through his chest. 

“Dood, t’be hanest, I’ve fucked a lahtta bandmates, in my dey. And usually it doesn’t work out for anyone. But!” Pickles holds up a small finger at Nathan’s dismayed (and slightly jealous) expression. “It’s us, dood. We’re best friends, and thet always comes first. And since we already did it, then we can’t make it worse by doin’ it again, y’know?” 

“That’s, uh. That’s....true,” Nathan mumbles, letting his eyes flirt just a tiny bit over Pickles’ exposed body. He’s so used to checking his friend out covertly that it feels wrong to be looking at him so blatantly, but he revels in the freedom, feeling his dick twitch underneath the towel in his lap as Pickles gently gnaws on his own bottom lip, finally coming over to sit by him, their damp shoulders brushing together. They both look down to watch small fingers ghosting over the hand that Nathan has resting between them. 

“Is this okey?” Pickles breathes, deft fingertips playing along the inner meat of Nathan’s wrist, and the frontman whispers a gravely “yeah” in response. The redhead’s voice is throaty in an undeniably sexy way, as he murmurs, “Y’like when I touch you, huh? Y’always have...” 

Nathan’s eyelashes flutter as he nods once, because it’s true. He does like when Pickles touches him - they naturally gravitate towards each other, naturally put steadying hands on backs or press their knees together under tables. The only good night’s sleep that he’s ever gotten were the occasions where the two of them would curl up together, and neither would complain or rearrange on the extra cold mornings where they’d wake up spooning. 

“Y’gahtta tell me whet’s goin’ on in there, buddy,” Pickles murmurs, tapping his free hand to Nathan’s temple. “Whet are you thinkin’ about?” 

“You,” Nathan confesses, cheeks pinkening, the air thick and heady between them as the green in Pickles’ eyes is swallowed up in the blackness of his pupils. Nathan growls, hair falling into his face, “You’re all I can fucking think about. I—“ 

Nathan cuts himself off with an inaudible gasp, as the hand on his wrist lifts, guiding the frontman’s fingers to Pickles’ mouth, and his drummer starts slowly kissing them. Nathan’s jaw falls slack, as he watches his friend’s soft lips press against the thick digits, and god, Nathan’s one hand is bigger than his entire head. It’s so fucking hot, and it only gets hotter, warmth blooming underneath Nathan’s collar and spreading all the way to his face as Pickles starts to suck on one of his fingers. 

“Oh...” Nathan breathes lustfully, because it’s so pornographic, the way Pickles’ studded tongue rolls against the pads of his finger, the way he closes his eyes and slurps obscenely as he sucks the digit in and out. Nathan’s honestly concerned that he’s going to cum from this alone, like he’s a goddamn teenager who’s never had any type of sex before - but he’s never had it like this. Not with someone who knows him so intensely, someone who he’s always admired and respected, who makes him feel like he's losing his fucking mind...

“Here’s the million dahllar question fer ya, Nate. ‘Cause I already _know_ whet I want,” Pickles says, once he slides the finger out of his mouth, bringing it up to brush over the bruises on his collarbone. Nathan swallows thickly as he traces the mark, pressing in and reveling in the soft noise that slips through his friend’s parted lips. He’s seen Pickles’ famous “fuck me” eyes up on billboards, flashing across the screen on MTV, but he’s never been on the receiving end of them before. Not until now, as Pickles’ murmurs, “Do you wanna fuck me again?” 

“Yeah,” Nathan growls, because he really, really does, and his feet bounce against the floor like he can barely hold back from launching himself in a passionate frenzy at the redhead. He demands more than asks, voice sounding desperate, “ _When_. When, uh, when can we do it, Pickles.” 

“Have some patience, Nate,” he lilts, standing up and stretching his body languidly. Nathan hungrily watches the way his towel slips a bit down thin hips, Pickles’ arousal blatantly straining against the front of it. “If we’re gonna do it again, we’re gonna do it right. Gimme a lil time to git everything ready.” 

That gnawing feeling, that this is going to mean more to both of them than just some random bro fuck, digs at the center of Nathan’s brain fervently. Especially as his heart beats just a little faster when Pickles grins crookedly at him before traipsing away, whistling like he’s never been happier.

This really _is_ going to drive him insane, isn't it?


End file.
